


messed up week

by ambitioncutsusdown



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Fluff, M/M, drarry fic battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitioncutsusdown/pseuds/ambitioncutsusdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s probably the thing he hates most, waking up alone. It’s right up there on the list next to falling asleep alone. A bed isn’t made to be alone in, that’s the rule. That’s how it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	messed up week

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [drarry fic battle](http://queergladers.tumblr.com/post/83298601251/drarry-fic-battle-queergladers-vs) between me and [isa](scaredpotter.tumblr.com)
> 
> theme: domestic + kitchen 
> 
> ((also here to complain about how domestic is the worst and this fic is the worst holy cow take it away from me))

Harry wakes up in the middle of the night, at three a.m., in an empty bed, which is more annoying in an _again_ kind of way, than it is confusing if he’s completely honest. It’s probably the thing he hates most, waking up alone. It’s right up there on the list next to falling asleep alone. A bed isn’t made to be alone in, that’s the rule. That’s how it works.

He rolls over, stretching out his limbs, and the spot next to him already feels cold, meaning it’s been unoccupied for a while, and he huffs out a little groan that’s muffled by the pillow his face is currently pressed in (not his pillow, he notices a second later. This one smells like minty shampoo).

It’s not the first time this week that it happens, Draco getting up in the middle of the night, but he’d hoped it would become _less_ frequent instead of _more_.

Well, so much for hoping, apparently.

With a little huff, Harry pushes himself up, arching his back until it pops and becomes a little more loose, and he slides out of bed after that. The air in their bedroom is chilly, despite it being late August, and he settles for taking a moment to tug on a pair of sweatpants to give him a little warmth. It doesn’t help a lot, but Harry just prays he won’t be out of bed for very long.

He tiptoes out of their bedroom as quietly as possible, leaving the door open to avoid that creaking noise it makes whenever someone shuts it, and makes his way downstairs.

Finding Draco isn’t hard, he just has to follow the source of light that comes from the kitchen, and once he’s entered it, he spots Draco standing by the window, looking outside at… _nothing_ , Harry assumes, because it’s too dark to really be able to see anything, but he’s standing there anyway, nursing a cup between his hands and taking small sips from it.

“That better be tea,” he mumbles, voice more sleepy than he expected it to be.

Draco doesn’t jump, doesn’t even look surprised in the slightest. Doesn’t turn around either, instead he just takes another sip and sighs. Not that Harry expected him to. “It is,” he finally replies.

“Good,” Harry says. At least it’s not coffee. At least he won’t have to deal with a _hyped-up-on-caffeine_ husband in the middle of the night. “What’re you doing up?” he then asks, as if suddenly remembering why they’re here, why he’s staring at Draco while he’s staring outside in the middle of the night.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Harry mutters something under his breath that might just as well have been a cluster of syllables instead of actual words.

If Draco’s heard him, he doesn’t let it show.

(He probably didn’t, though. Looks pretty lost in thought. And Harry can be very much _not_ understandable if he wants to be. Or if he’s tired).

He steps further into the kitchen, moving closer to Draco until he’s standing behind him, briefly glancing through the window as well, just in case there might actually be something. When he can’t spot anything out of the ordinary, he just hooks his chin over Draco’s shoulder and slides his arms around his waist. “Why not?”

Draco shrugs one shoulder – the one Harry isn’t leaning on. Harry can see his brow furrowing in his reflection in the window. “I don’t know. Just couldn’t.”

“That’s the third time this week.” A hint of worry is slipping into his voice.

Now Draco lets out a huff, positively glares at Harry. “Yes, I’m aware of that. Thank you.”

Harry tightens his arms around Draco, partly in retaliation and partly to soothe him, silently tell him he meant it in the best way possible. “M’just saying. M’worried about you. S’not like you to wake up so often.”

Maybe it was when they first got together, after the war. Neither of them slept a lot back in those days, plagued by nightmares and memories. But that was almost six years ago, and those days are long past them. Now Draco sleeps like he’s dead – not very long, he can get by with a few hours of sleep. But he never wakes up randomly.

So yes, Harry thinks he has every right to be worried, because if this keeps happening, something is obviously bothering Draco.

And he doesn’t know what.

A silence settles over them, in which Draco finishes his cup of tea and Harry stays close to him, listening to his breathing and trying not to fall asleep while standing up.

He is tired, okay. It’s not because Draco refuses to sleep (or tell him why he can’t sleep), that Harry can do the same. He likes to get some rest (and sleeping without Draco is not the same – he just feels restless and uneasy).

“I’m scared,” is what Draco finally says, snapping Harry awake and focused again.

Nosing softly over the side of Draco’s neck, Harry inhale, deep and slow. “What are you scared of?” he finally asks.

Really, there could be a lot of different possibilities. He _thinks_ he knows though, but with Draco he’s never sure. It wouldn’t be the first time he surprises him one way or another.

“What do you think?”

Scowling again, Draco frees himself from Harry’s arms, taking advantage of his surprise to walk over to the kitchen counter and put his cup down, hands hovering over it for a second before he picks it up again and decides he might just as well clean it right away.

“Is it about Alison?”

Draco’s shoulders tense up, and okay, apparently Harry was right about it.

He watches as Draco cleans his cup with jerky movements, fingers clenched around the porcelain. Harry almost feels sorry for it, wondering if Draco will actually break it with his bare hands.

He looks like he might.

“You don’t need to be scared,” he says when it becomes clear Draco isn’t going to reply. “Really. Why would you be scared?”

For a moment, he’s expecting Draco is going to give him the silent treatment, mostly because he still doesn’t seem to be very keen on replying, instead concentrating on drying said cup and putting it away. But then he drops the towel and turns around, facing Harry, and there’s a glare on his face.

“What if she doesn’t like it here?”

Harry blinks at him, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth. “Why would she not? It’s amazing here. She’ll have lots of room to play, and–”

“That’s not what I mean, Harry,” Draco interrupts him, deflating again and leaning against the kitchen counter, all of a sudden looked more tired than Harry has seen him be in weeks. “What if she doesn’t like… this. Us.”

Harry frowns, stepping closer to Draco again. “Why would she not like us?”

“Because we’re not her real parents? I mean, we’re just… we’ll be her adoptive parents. What if we can never become her real parents?”

Having heard enough, Harry shakes his head and reaches a hand out, gently putting his finger over Draco’s lips to make him shut up. “Don’t say that,” he whispers, making sure he’s meeting Draco’s gaze.

His glare has molten away, making way for an expression that’s more self-conscious than anything else.

In retrospect, Harry probably should have figured it out sooner, that this is what Draco is worried about. The thing that’s been making him lose sleep for a week.

But then again – how could he? Draco had been so excited about it, about wanting children and a family and an almost awfully cliché life (apart from the dog. He’d drawn the line at that. No dogs). They’d both preferred adoption over a surrogate mother.

It had taken them months to talk to the right people, to fill in all the paper work, to get everything ordered and arranged. A process that was tiring and emotionally drowning, keeping them on the edge for months – will it be a yes or a no. Will all of this have been for nothing in the end. Would they qualify? What if they did something wrong, filled in the wrong paper? Would it all start again?

But then they’d gotten the letter saying that everything was okay, that they were on the list – Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Draco happier. Maybe when they got married. It’d be a tie.

Not much later they received the news about their little girl. _Alison_. She’s three years old with a sickening sweet smile and dark eyes, nothing less than absolutely adorable, and Harry fell in love with her the moment he saw her pictures. Instinctively knew everything would be okay.

Unlike Draco, apparently.

Which he _should have known_ , because Draco tends to stress about _everything_ , and this is probably the biggest everything in their lives. He was wrong for not expecting this, really.

Harry sighs and shakes his head again, cupping Draco’s cheek and sliding his thumb over the patch of skin underneath his eye, chewing the inside of his cheek at how tired Draco looks, like he hasn’t slept properly in ages. Which is sort of true, though. “It’ll be fine,” he says, doesn’t miss the hopeful glint in Draco’s eyes, so he just keeps going. “Everything’s ready. She can come, and we’ll be amazing parents, and she’ll have an amazing life. Trust me on this.”

“How d’you know?” Draco asks him, tilting his head a fraction into Harry’s touch, but it’s enough to make him smile.

“’Cause I’m Harry Potter, and I say so.”

The snort Draco lets out is enough for him, though. He can’t even be annoyed at it. “Still so full of yourself, Potter,” Draco whispers, sounding a lot lighter, less troubled. Maybe even playful. And if that means he’s done being sad, Harry will take it.

“Learned it from the best,” he replies, leaning up to peck Draco’s lips softly, and smiling when he can feel him relax against him, for the first time that day and maybe even that week.

He wraps his arms around his waist, pulling Draco close to his body so they fit together and he can rest his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Stop worrying,” he whispers, voice muffled by Draco’s hair, but Harry knows he’s heard him anyway. “You worry too much. Everything will turn out okay. I promise.”

They stand in silence for god knows how long – too long, for Harry’s liking, especially when the thinks about how they still could be in bed (how much nicer and more comfortable that would be), but it’s alright, because Draco is relaxing and listening to him; and now Harry knows what’s been bothering him all along, he can do something about it. Get Draco out of his head.

Because admittedly, it _is_ scary what they’re doing. They’re having a child, and it’s big and unreal and amazing and scary, but it’s not worth losing sleep over. Or being sad about. It’s a happy thing.

Draco knows that too, Harry doesn’t doubt that for a second. He’s just better at seeing all the things that could go wrong, whereas Harry doesn’t bother with those.

It’s not going wrong. He’ll make sure of that.

“D’you wanna go back to bed?” Harry asks a little later, when he thinks Draco has calmed down enough to maybe get some rest; and the tentative nod he gets makes him smile again, so he presses another kiss to Draco’s lips and takes his hand. “Let’s go,” he says, walking out of the kitchen and tugging Draco along, upstairs and into the bedroom, door creaking obnoxiously loud when Draco kicks it shut with his foot.

Harry settles down on bed first, then pulls the covers away for Draco and gathers him in his arms, until their limbs are tangled together and he can feel Draco’s breathing hot against his skin.

The sheets warm the cold back quickly enough, trapping them in a cocoon of heat and safety.

“Just sleep,” Harry whispers, carding his fingers through Draco’s hair and letting his hand slide down his back.

It takes a while, in which Harry keeps trailing his fingers over Draco’s skin, but eventually he notices Draco’s breathing getting slower, deeper, until he’s dozed off, and only when he’s completely sure Draco’s asleep, Harry lets himself follow him.

It’ll be okay.


End file.
